Favourite Fantasies #16

I am a twenty-six-year-old grad student currently finishing my Ph.D. dissertation. I spend my days writing and typing at home while my wife works, so I have ample time for sexual fantasies.
I have far more kinky impulses than does my wife. She greatly enjoys “normal sex,” but has little interest in the ex-otic. She encourages my fantasizing since it gives me satis-faction without requiring that she herself engage in weird sexual practices.
I often find myself fantasizing that something (hypnosis, a birth control pill with erotic side effects) has made my wife as horny and desirous of sexual adventure as myself. A typi-cal fantasy follows.
It’s our anniversary and Patsy (my wife) has agreed to do anything I want her to do. I suggest that we go to a nearby restaurant which caters to the “swinging singles” crowd. I wear very tight-fitting pants, through which my bikini-style underwear shows (the pants are white and the briefs black). I also wear a ruffled shirt with a deep V neck (I never wear anything like this in reality). After dressing I lay out Patsy’s clothes. She emerges from the shower and is shocked, for I have chosen many of the items which in real life she lets me buy her only on the condition that she never has to wear them in public. (I at first thought this was simply a highly devel-oped sense of modesty, but Patsy has explained how deeply she resented being whistled at or approached by strange men when she is walking to work and doesn’t want to give them any encouragement. This makes sense to me and I have come to understand that women often have good reason for not acting out fantasies). The apparel included an orange acetate nylon mini, by far the shortest she owns, brown stockings which look like ordinary seamed stockings but mysteriously stay up without garters or panty girdles (as Patsy says, one of the virtues of fantasies is that such problems take care of themselves). Her shoes are very high-heeled sandals with a strap around the ankle, like women wore in the 1940’s. Her only undergarment is a pair of crotchless panties – bright orange with brown lace trim. She actually does have a pair of these which turn me on in the strongest way, but only wears them in bed. When Patsy sees the panties she protests, but I remind her of her promise and being very horny herself she agrees.
After she has dressed I put my finger in her vagina already covered with a viscous (even the word sounds dirty!) liquid. I then use my fingers to rub the secretions behind her ears and between her breasts, treating it as perfume. I love the smell of her juices when I go down on her and this lets me get a whiff just by leaning close to her.
We walk to the restaurant, both of us aware that every man on the street is staring at her. The sky is dark – it’s just before one of those big Midwestern thunderstorms – and the wind is fierce. Patsy’s dress keeps blowing up, exposing her thighs and offering a glimpse of the panties. The contrast between the orange panty and the white cleft of my [sic] bottom re-minds me of a giant multicolored Oreo cookie (besides sex I like food a lot). She whispers to me that the wind is ruffling her pubic hair.
The restaurant is packed. It doesn’t take reservations so we get in line. People are pressed in all around us, waiting for a table. Patsy gives a little gasp of alarm and a sharp “Oh.” I’m too busy keeping people from trampling me so I fail to notice that she is squirming and giggling a bit.
We finally get a table and as we sit down Patsy says, “You’re incorrigible! What were you thinking of, putting your finger right up my you-know-where and rubbing me like that!” I looked at her and swear that I didn’t touch her, but I now understood her squirming. She realizes that a complete stranger has given her an orgasm and that somebody’s hands are impregnated with her goo. I suggest she kiss every man’s hand to find out who her admirer was, but she doesn’t think that is a good idea. At my insistence she agrees to give him a better chance to see her. She walks across the room toward the bar and then drops her purse. A zillion things fall out and Patsy bends slowly, from the waist and keeping her knees straight. She must stay bent over for a count of one hundred as her entire rump is bared for any who wish to look. Finally she straight-ens up, and, blushing, walks back to her table.
Patsy and I enjoy a delicious meal and when I ask for the check the waitress tells us that Patsy’s exhibition was so ex-citing that the manager has given us a meal on the house.
I am now so horny I can’t wait. We go over to the men’s john and I make sure it’s empty. We go in one of the stalls and make love standing up. Patsy comes quickly, but I’m still going strong when we hear the door open. Patsy gives me a look of panic, but I lift her onto the toilet seat, so only my legs appear beneath the stall. Two men enter and begin dis-cussing what Patsy had done by the bar. They express in gut-ter language their admiration for her body and speculate on whether she was a “pro” putting on a show to drum up busi-ness or just brazen. As Patsy listens she grasps my penis and sticks it in her mouth (she doesn’t do this “in real life”). She sucks and licks, acutely aware, as I am, that the slurping sound might be heard. I have a tremendous orgasm, letting out an involuntary groan of relief. One of the men asks, “Hey, you okay in there?” I recover and have the sense to tell them that I just had a hair stuck in my zipper. They chuckle and exit, still talking about Patsy’s performance. We then sneak out and go home – to bed and less dangerous but per-haps more affectionate sex.
When I have fantasies I sometimes imagine that I am Patsy (or a Victorian spinster k**napped, bound and f***ed into ecstasy by diabolically skillful lovemaking). I rarely identify directly with the male aggressor in the fantasy, being half the victim and half the avid but invisible voyeur. Costuming is very important. There is no single item of clothing – but I find incongruous attire exciting (e.g., a prim hat, umbrella, buttoned shoes and nothing else). Most women in my fanta-sies are either my own age or sometimes older (I sometimes imagine a fifty-five-year-old grandmother who has been given a miracle d**g so that her body is that of a Vargas pinup girl – from the neck down). I also worry a little about their sadistic (or masochistic – since I identify with the girl being humiliated?) content.
I have no idea why the humiliation theme is so prominent. My parents never punished me for masturbation or other sex-ual activities (they never even discussed such things).